Chapter Thirteen #2
"No. Dead. All of them. Three years ago I think." Talia dipped her bread into her stew. "They said it was a miscalculation. His call. No one talks about it."
Cassara went still. He'd lost a whole squad?
She wasn't sure what to make of that revelation.
Auren had always seemed distant and controlled to the point of coldness.
She had assumed it was discipline, but was it truly?
Or was he simply a man holding himself together through sheer force of will?
The realization made him suddenly, disconcertingly human in a way that left her feeling off-balance.
Liri glanced at Cassara, then back at Talia. "How do you even know this stuff?"
"I listen," Talia said.
That was all the explanation she offered.
Cassara didn't speak again for the rest of lunch. She couldn't seem to settle back into her skin. Her thoughts kept looping, catching on Auren's silences, his sharp corrections, his refusal to praise.
She'd called it arrogance, but now it sat differently in her chest.
For some reason, it felt less like pride and more like grief.
It was a brokenness trying hard not to be noticed. She recognized it because she'd learned young how to wear the same mask—how to bury pain so deep that no one could see it bleeding through. Grief, after all, was weakness and tears were failure.
It had been one of the many lessons her father had taught her after her mother had died.
Maybe Auren had learned the same lesson.
The training room was empty when Cassara arrived.
She stood in the doorway for a moment, taking in the silence, the neat arrangement of equipment already set out for the session. The stone walls still held their faint chill, though the air felt less sharp than it had yesterday.
It was empty.
She told herself the flicker of disappointment was about the wasted effort, nothing more.
Cassara stepped inside and began her warm-ups without waiting. Her ribs protested less today—Talia's salve had worked its magic, the deep bruising faded to mottled yellow-green. Still tender, but healing.
She moved through the sequences with more ease than she had in days. Rotations, stretches, flowing from one position to the next with a fluidity she hadn't allowed herself when Auren was watching. No need to prove anything to an empty room.
Her body found its rhythm. She rolled her shoulders, testing the give, then sank into a deeper stretch, one arm extended overhead, her spine arching as she breathed through the pull on her injured side.
The prickling awareness hit her between one breath and the next.
The feeling of being watched.
Cassara straightened and turned.
Auren stood in the doorway.
Not just arrived—standing there, one shoulder against the frame, arms crossed. The way he held himself suggested he'd been there long enough to settle into the position. Long enough to watch.
His eyes were on her. Not her form, not her technique. Her.
For one unguarded moment, he looked at her like a man instead of an instructor. Then the realization seemed to hit him and his expression closed off, neutral and controlled once more. But her heart was already hammering against her ribs.
The silence stretched.
Neither of them spoke.
Heat crept up her neck. She forced herself to hold his gaze even as her heartbeat thundered in her ears.
"Do you always lurk in the shadows watching students?" The words came out more defensive than she had meant them too, perhaps trying to break whatever had just passed between them.
Auren didn't respond immediately.
He just pushed off the doorframe and stepped into the room. Measured. Deliberate. Each footstep steady on the stone floor as he crossed the threshold into her space.
He stopped a few feet away. Close enough that she had to tilt her chin up slightly to maintain eye contact.
"You're still compensating," he said finally, his voice level. Professional.
But he moved closer.
Cassara's breath caught as he circled behind her, and suddenly she was acutely aware of every inch of space he occupied. The heat radiating from him. The steady rhythm of his breathing.
"Here." His hand settled on her left shoulder, fingers pressing just firmly enough to adjust her posture. "You're dropping this side."
The touch was clinical. Professional. Exactly the kind of correction an instructor would make.
Except his hand didn't move.
His palm was warm through the thin fabric of her training shirt, and she could feel each individual finger where they rested against her shoulder. His other hand came to her waist—steadying, correcting the angle of her stance.
"Distribute the weight evenly," he said, close enough that she felt the words against her ear more than heard them.
She tried to focus on the correction, on adjusting her position, but all she could think about was the heat of his hands on her body. The way his thumb pressed against her lower back, firm and sure. The fact that he was still touching her.
Her pulse jumped visibly at her throat.
"Like this," Auren continued, his hands guiding her into proper alignment.
But they lingered.
Not long. Not inappropriately. Just a half-second longer than necessary before he released her and stepped back, putting professional distance between them once more.
Cassara's skin burned where his hands had been.
She exhaled slowly, forcing her breathing to steady, and adjusted her stance as he'd directed. The correction was sound—she could feel the difference immediately, the way her weight distributed more evenly, taking pressure off her injured side.
"Better," Auren said, his voice carefully neutral again.
He moved to the equipment without looking at her, checking the resistance bands with methodical precision.
But something had shifted in the air between them. A charge that hummed beneath the surface, unacknowledged but undeniable.
Cassara flexed her fingers once, trying to shake off the sensation of his touch still ghosting across her skin.
"Ready?" he asked, holding out one of the bands.
She nodded, not trusting her voice, and crossed to take it from him.
Their fingers brushed in the exchange—brief, accidental—but she felt it like a spark up her arm.
His hand stilled for just a heartbeat before he released the band and stepped back.
Neither of them mentioned it.
They moved into the drills with that same careful distance, that same studied professionalism. But Cassara couldn't shake the awareness thrumming through her veins.
The way he'd looked at her in the doorway.
The way his hands had felt on her body.
The way neither of them had acknowledged any of it.
When they finished the final set, Auren gave a single nod toward the door. "Same time tomorrow."
Cassara hesitated, fingers flexing once at her side. "That's it?"
"For now."
She nodded, slowly.
As she turned to leave, she felt his eyes follow her—a heat against her back that lingered all the way to the door.
The corridor leading back to the dorms was blissfully quiet. Most students were still at brunch or finishing drills, and Cassara moved with purpose—sweat still clinging to her neck, muscles sore from Auren's circuit, ribs burning in a steady pulse beneath her shirt.
She needed a shower and space.
She spotted Julian before he saw her—leaning against the wall near the dormitory entrance, clearly waiting. Her steps slowed, but it was too late. He'd already looked up.
"Cass."
She didn't stop. "Don't."
“I’m not here to fight.”
“You’re always here to fight.”
He fell in step beside her, posture loose and apologetic. “Just give me a minute.”
“I really don’t have the energy for this.”
He angled ahead of her, not blocking her exactly, just enough to make her pause before the dormitory stairs. “One minute.”
Cassara crossed her arms and leaned into the stone. Her ribs flared in protest. “You’re wasting your sixty seconds.”
Julian gave a crooked smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “You remember when we were thirteen, and you got caught sneaking into the old conservatory behind the estate?”
She frowned.
“I told your father it was my idea,” he said. “Said you were just following me.”
Cassara remembered. “And he believed you.”
“Of course he did. I’m very convincing.”
“You also got grounded for a week.”
“Worth it.”
Julian reached into his coat and pulled out a small velvet pouch. It was deep blue and worn at the corners. Cassara recognized it immediately.
"You gave me this," he said. "Said it would protect me during my training."
"I said it might," she corrected. "If you didn't lose it in your laundry bin."
He smiled faintly. "I was thinking maybe you could use it more than me now."
Cassara stared at it. There was something practiced in his charm, polished in his concern—so different from Auren's raw honesty.
Julian wielded his emotions like perfectly balanced weapons, each smile calculated for maximum effect.
Auren's silence carried more weight than Julian's carefully chosen words.
The comparison came unbidden, unwelcome. She shoved it down before it could take root.
Julian's voice dropped, softer now. "I don't like when things are so cold between us."
Cassara didn't answer, she just stared at the pouch.
Part of her wanted to refuse, to shove it back and walk away from whatever peace offering this was meant to be.
But she couldn't quite make herself do it.
Because Julian hadn't always been like this—treating her like a thing to be owned.
There had been a time when his gestures felt genuine, when she'd actually wanted his attention.
She hated that she still remembered that version of him.
Hated more that some small part of her still hoped he might come back.
Finally she took it, but she didn't open it, just held it, the weight of it small and familiar against her palm.
Julian stepped aside, giving her the space she'd been silently demanding since he'd appeared. "I'll let you go," he said, quieter this time. "Just don't forget I'm still here."
Cassara waited until Julian's footsteps faded completely, until she was certain he'd turned the corner and wasn't lingering to see what she'd do next.
Then she ducked into the nearest alcove, back pressed against cool stone, her breath still not quite steady. Her ribs ached. Her muscles burned. But neither of those things were why her hands trembled slightly as she looked down at the pouch.
The drawstring was half-frayed, one corner darker where the dye had worn from years of being tucked into pockets and forgotten satchels. It smelled faintly of cedar and dust. Old things. Familiar things. Things that belonged to a version of herself she was trying very hard to leave behind.
She opened it.
Inside sat a tiny carved feather, no longer than her pinky joint. Pale wood, delicately etched with glyphs, clumsy ones, unaligned and slightly uneven. She remembered the day she’d made it, cutting the shape from driftwood. They’d been twelve.
A folded scrap of parchment sat beneath it.
She pulled it free and unfolded the note.
Don’t burn out before the good part. I still owe you that rematch. —J
Cassara slid the charm into her palm and closed her fingers around it.
Her ribs ached. Her throat ached worse.
But she didn’t cry.
She stood there for a long time, eyes fixed on the tiny curl of burnt wood, trying to remember when Julian’s promises had stopped feeling safe.
And why part of her still wanted to believe them anyway.